


no interruption

by nevergreen



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Drug Withdrawal, Hallucinations, M/M, Mr. Robot and Elliot are not the same person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergreen/pseuds/nevergreen
Summary: "Is it real?" is the hardest question, and simultaneously the one that he has to answer way too often./1x04, Mr. Robot is real/
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Mr. Robot
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	no interruption

There are hands on him and around, a lot of them, Elliot pushes them all away, and they eventually give up, all except one pair that stays put. They’re warm, they flip his t-shirt and push him back. The lamp above the bed is so bright, Elliot’s eyes are all teary and he can’t see anything.

“Go away,” he croaks and falls on his back. Bedsheets are so rough, he can feel his back scratched and burned where they rub on his skin. He’s hot, but his fingers are freezing and unresponsive, so he just gives up with the rest of his clothes, tries to bury his head deep inside the blankets, away from the light scorching his eyeballs out, away from the heavy sound of breathing, thick in the air. Someone yanks his pants down the knees, then socks too; there are two blankets covering his head but he still hears all the voices loud and clear.

“Man, how about you put a diaper on him already?”  
“Shut up and give me a bucket.”

 _And turn off that bloody fucking lamp_ , Elliot wants to say, but his throat is held tight, he only manages to push out a groan. The same hands, warm and dexterous, snatch off the blankets and drags him out by the nape of the neck. The lamp is no more, all the room is in the blissful semi-darkness.

“Thanks”, Elliot manages to push out, and immediately throws up on his shoes. Mr. Robot looks him in the eyes briefly, then turns to the side and hisses:  
“Fucking bucket, now.”

Elliot’s whole back feels like a set of strings tied to every muscle, all of them ending under the firm grip on his neck. Mr. Robot holds him for some more, ensuring Elliot isn’t going to throw up again, then scoffs and shakes his head. “Fuck, kiddo, what a pile of mess you are.”

“It’s going to be worse, and you are going to waste all the time we have on him.”  
“I will be okay,” Elliot whispers, his eyes are closed shut, the hand on his neck feels like claws under his skin. “A couple of hours more.”

Mr. Robot lets out a small chuckle and lets Elliot go. He falls on a pillow and immediately crawls his head under, wrapped in sheets and sweating. “You wish. Hey, you two, turn that TV down.” His words echo in Elliot’s head, further and further away. The last thing he hears before blacking out is a quiet rustling by his side, and a loud thump when Mr. Robot drops his shoes on the floor.

It’s the first blackout out of many. Every time Elliot dives in deep, dark, down nothingness, he floats up feeling more fucked up than before. His stomach is pulled inside out, hollowed and burning. His throat makes a rasping sound every time he feels sick but there’s nothing coming out anymore, he doesn’t even bother to spit in the bucket. All his muscles are knots and ropes, they twist and turn, they rub against each other, and Elliot wants to scream but his mouth is dry, muscles in his jaw are clenched so tight he can’t even move it.

“Has he pissed himself yet?”  
“Why would you be asking shit like that?” he sounds pissed off, and Elliot shares this feeling with the passion he didn’t know he possessed.  
“Because he’s dehydrated as fuck, and if you don’t want to sit beside a junkie piss pool, you might want to keep him that way.”

 _Fuck you, man_ , Elliot wants to say, _I can control myself perfectly fucking well_ , when a warm firm hand lies on his forehead, the touch is heavy like a stone but brief, and Elliot is burning the second it goes away.  
They argue again, they shout at each other, Elliot hears everything muffled and doubled, but loud enough he wants to scream _shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up you all_. His arms are betraying him, he can’t put them anywhere without feeling them twisting and snapping. Romero keeps talking about dumping him at the nearest hospital, and the only thing Elliot can think about when shaking and arching his back is _oh my god, don’t leave me here, please, not alone_.  
"Fine, leave, if you want," snaps Mr. Robot instead of him, and Elliot blacks out again with the sound of the door swinging shut.

They’re alone again, and Elliot feels nauseous for the first time. He stands there, his back pressed into the cold, hard steel door frame, his face is hot and wet. He sneezes, loudly, and wipes his face with a sleeve, his stomach twists and turns. Shoes on a table before Elliot's eyes are dirty enough not to worry about ruining them with vomit, but it’s a matter of courtesy, Elliot doesn’t really want to puke on the shoes of a person he only met three times so far. Not like he usually has more, though.

He shifts and steps back, nevertheless. He needs to get out of here before it’s obvious how shitty he feels.  
“You don’t seem to be worried, man,” Elliot says instead. His own voice seems to be too loud for him and he brushes the feeling away, scared and annoyed at the same time.

“Why would I? We have everything we need.” Lights flicker on his skin playfully.  
“And what is that?”

Mr. Robot stands up, and Elliot feels his throat tighten and skin creeping. They stand against each other, Elliot looks sideways, it’s the only way he can stand still and not twitch away. “I told you already.” His breath smells like cigarettes and popcorn.

 _I can’t believe it_ , Elliot wants to say, _can’t believe you need me. I’ll never believe that_. 

“I need to go,” he says instead, but there’s nowhere to step back, he’s still pressed into that goddamn door frame, and what’s wrong with him, standing that close? Elliot’s forehead tingles at the place he knows Mr. Robot’s gaze at. They both step forward at the same time, they bump into each other and when Elliot is about to step away, Mr. Robot grabs his face – there’s nothing caring in this, it’s quick and strong and imperative – and presses their lips together. He kisses Elliot’s mouth, he slides his tongue over the thin cracked skin, the pressure of his fingers is enough to leave a mark.

It feels so good, that’s how he knows it’s time to run away.

Elliot breaks away, pushes him, sidesteps, then drags his backpack from the chair and runs through the door, shutting it with a loud bang, loud enough, he hopes, to be considered as a proper goodbye.

The sound is deafening, it sends a painful jolt through his whole body, Elliot falls down, he’s jack-knifed on the dirty floor, his teeth are clenched. It’s so cold there, and he can’t open his eyes, the lids are glued together, and he’s afraid, he’s so scared and helpless that when something heavy drops on his shoulders, covering his head, he’s exhaling loudly, relieved.

When Elliot finally manages to open his eyes, he lies on the bed, naked, _you probably think i’m pathetic, despicable, piss poor excuse of a human_ , covered with a jacket. Mr. Robot sits next to him on a nightstand, his sleeves rolled up. Elliot holds onto the jacket, he’s cold and blankets don’t do him any good. “Where are they?” His heart slams violently against the ribs.

“They’ll go back,” Mr. Robot murmurs and stands up. “Or I’ll drag them one by one.”

“I’m freezing,” Elliot curls under the jacket and a pile of blankets, feeling dizzy, disoriented, streaking with pain that goes through all his body, it feels like his skin is too tight for him now, his spine stretches the skin on his back, any second now it can tear through.

“I gave you my jacket.”

“I’m freezing,” Elliot says again, stuttering and breathing heavily. He’s going to slip away again, he feels it, he knows it, he doesn’t want to fall alone. 

He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, either, and just waits, feeling his consciousness starting to fade again, slowly this time. He fights himself for control, and the battle is furious, to the point when Elliot doesn’t notice his mattress bending over the weight of another body – not until the hand lies on top of the jacket, blankets and him.

Mr. Robot sits closer to him, and Elliot grabs his hand, twitching agonizingly. He’s warm, and this warmness seeps through Elliot's sore, tightened muscles, making him inhale sharply. Mr. Robot watches him with a head slightly twitched. “What do you want, kiddo?”

Elliot shakes his head to throw off darkness creeping, and Mr. Robot sees it through, his hand tightened. “Tell me,” he insists.

“We can’t lose more time,” air scratches Elliot’s throat inside, but he needs to keep talking before he slips away again. “I need morphine.”

“No can do,” Mr. Robot squeezes his shoulder slightly, and Elliot’s arm responds with a quiver growing inside his body. Nothingness nibbles at him, and his cheeks are streaked with tears, it’s the utmost feeling of despair that drowns him. “A-a hit, one hit. We can’t wait longer. Only thing we can do.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” his voice is firm but quiet, and the hand is still there, and Elliot lets out more tears, pained and silent, his convulsions have him curled in a ball of sweat, heavy breathing and icy cold, lanky limbs. Mr. Robot watches him for a while, then takes off his shirt. Elliot looks at him through the veil of tears before his eyes, trying to push out more air, to make it words, to say “I don’t need your clothes”, and before he manages to do so, Mr. Robot kicks his blankets off him and lies down.

“It hurts,” Elliot croaks, when arms link around him, they are heavy, rough and tight, they’re painful, but so warm, hot even. Elliot’s face is on his shoulder, he doesn’t fight, he can’t do anything. Mr. Robot’s hands find his bare back, they feel like grit and sand, and before Elliot realizes, he’s pressed into him with his whole body, basking in his warmness, scratching his skin on his jeans and t-shirt till the blood comes out.  
The heart is thumping loudly and heavily, everything hurts, his sweat-drenched pillow slides away from him. _Keep me_ , Elliot mouths, and then he’s no more.

This blackout is longer, it doesn’t let him go that easy, he’s blind and senseless, and everything he saw is leaking out of him, dissociating slowly. There’s no blankets anymore, only a sheet tossed over him. The room is quiet, still empty perhaps – and Elliot is hit with a sudden wave of association, he recognizes legs stretched on the messy bedsheets as his, he comes in terms with his left arm, pulsating with pain and the right one, grabbing onto the pillow.  
Suddenly his head is there too, and his whole body finally recognizes him as its owner, Elliot slips back in like he has root access to it, again. To try and prove this, he lifts his head first, then sits down, slowly. The lamp is back on, there’s a pile of clothes on the bed, the floor where he vomited on Mr. Robot’s shoes is slowly getting dry, and he’s alone.

He’s alone, again. They left him there, maybe there wasn’t anyone in the first place. Elliot feels tears pooling in his eyes again and reaches his hand to wipe his face. It burns to touch his eyes like that, they’re red-rimmed and puffy. He empties a glass of water standing next to the bed and coughs.  
“I’m alone,” he whispers into the thick air, entangled in the sheet still, he feels so small when he hugs his knees and sobs all the names of people he saw and talked to. _I told you to keep me and you didn’t_ , were you there in the first place?

“I’m always there,” the voice is both inside and out of his head. Mr. Robot watches him, stepped outside of the bathroom, his hands are wet, his hair is disheveled, there’s no cap, no glasses, and Elliot looks at his face with a mix of utter disbelief and despair. He comes closer, sits by Elliot, and his voice is quiet. “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.”  
He pushes his wet hair back, wipes Elliot’s forehead with a back of his palm, concerned, quiet, unlike him. “What did you see?”

“People,” Elliot admits and sniffles. “And you.”  
“Am I not a person?”  
“You’re a sick fuck who keeps disappearing all the time. I might as well still be hallucinating.”  
“What a fucked up thought,” Mr. Robot shifts closer and it feels good, Elliot can’t help but move too. “I’m just as real as you are.”

“I doubt both of us,” Elliot confesses quietly and there it is, the familiar touch of loneliness and dissociation, veiling him and pushing him further, to the conclusions he’s forced to make, to the drugs he’s forced to use, to the words, that, he knows, will never be useful to any single person. Mr. Robot cups his face and draws him closer, forcing Elliot to look him in the eyes. They’re bright and alive.

“You are not alone,” he says in between two heartbeats, the voice is distinct and clear. His thumbs are on Elliot’s cheeks, moving slowly. “I am not going anywhere.”  
Elliot waits for his fingers to slide down, closing on his jaw, gripping him hard and strong, and it doesn’t happen, one second runs after another. Maybe he is real. Maybe they both are. Maybe the fact he’s never going to do what he did in his hallucination is the most powerful argument, a hard evidence.

“You know how you prove that you’re right?” Mr. Robot asks quietly, in a low voice. “How can you achieve the most definite, irrefutable proof, unchallengeable answer?”  
Elliot shakes his head lightly and Mr. Robot presses his fingers into Elliot’s face and whispers:  
“You try to defeat your own argument.”

Elliot draws forward, looking at his reflection in the eyes against their own – waiting for his decision. He closes his eyes, shutting himself from everything, except for palms cupping his face and lips pressed against his own. _That’s me. That’s you. Are we real?_

Does it matter?

Mr. Robot touches his bottom lip with the tongue, glides over, just like he did before – the difference is, he never did that before, and the sensation is familiar and wild at the same time. They kiss until there’s nothing left besides a slight hint of a freshly smoked cigarette and a taste of their lips combined, it feels wonderful, it can easily be the first Elliot’s sober kiss, and his fight or flight instinct is shut down for good.

Even when Mr. Robot lifts Elliot’s wrist to his face and kisses small circular scars, pale and old, one after another, softly, the only thing Elliot feels is _existing, being, breathing, living_. His hand is on Elliot’s bare back; another holds his hand. Mr. Robot pushes him forward lightly, he only gives him momentum, draws a direction for him; when Elliot lies down, his wrists are pulled up.

“I can do the job.” _I won’t waste my chance._

He waits for anything, really – “shut up” is the most likely option – but Mr. Robot grips his wrists harder and presses lips into his throat, catching the pulsation under the skin. “I know,” he says instead, and the vibration of his voice sends shivers down Elliot’s body.  
“Keep me,” Elliot breathes out, louder this time. “Don’t go.”

"He's even able to speak, what a pleasant fucking surprise."

"Have I ever woken up?"

"I can't believe you've done this."

"How many layers of hallucinations have I breached through?"

"Does it feel good, Elliot?"

"They found him in that shithole of a den, shot twice."

_here in this room i died alone a thousand times_

“This time I’ll be with you.”


End file.
